Son of the Desert
by Kishoto
Summary: [One-Shot] There are no easy roads through the sands.


Under the harsh light of the Gerudo desert, a large monolithic structure stood. Its sandstone structure was worn down by the passage of time, an indicator of how long it had stood there, and how long it would continue to stand. Down before it was a young man, sat with his legs crossed and his arms resting on his knees in the stone entranceway.

Despite the sweat gathering on his brow under the hundred-plus degree weather, the man's expression was calm and placid. He had dark, olive skin, offset by a flaming mane of orange-red hair that fell down his back in waves, and his eyes were closed in deep concentration. He wore nothing but loose trousers, gauntlets and a belt, most of his body unshielded from the sun's merciless stare.

After a moment, he shifted, his eyes snapping open as he leaned back, a foot swiping at his face, just barely missing his nose. With a smooth motion that belied its difficulty, he rolled with his motion, snapping his foot up and kicking out at the ankle, sending the attacker into a backflip.

In what seemed to be no time at all, the man was on his feet, crouched, hands held out in front of him. He faced a slim woman, with hair as fiery and skin as dark as his. Her style of dress was both provocative and practical, the loose pants and belly top accompanied by chain mail under-armor and stiff leather boots, accented by the dual scimitars held in her hands.

With a short cry, she stepped forward, sending her blade out in a quick stab that he deflected with a snap of his gauntlet. The following three stabs met a similar fate, leading her to switch tactics. A quick half step back led to a full swing of her other sword that only met empty air as he stepped forward, gripping her elbow and twisting, causing that blade to drop.

Before she could spin her other scimitar up to defend herself, that arm was also gripped and locked, the second sword stabbing into the soft sand below as the attacker found herself chest to chest with her would be victim. Well, more like face to chest, as he towered over her by at least eight inches. They were both breathing heavily, the brief exchange's effects magnified in the dry heat. Blue eyes met amber.

After a moment, the woman leaned forward and bit him on his chest. He didn't move and she clamped down harder, almost breaking skin. The muscle below her rumbled rhythmically as the man laughed, softly. She halted her efforts, leaning back, pouting.

"No fair. You weren't even looking, that first kick should've knocked you clean on your ass."

The man released her, stepping back and patting her on her head, causing her no small amount of annoyance.

"You're a decade too early, little Aisha. Good effort though."

The man's voice was light and easy going as he stretched.

"You're like FIVE years older than me, max."

"Exactly."

She shoved him, sending him off balance into the sand. He laughed as he fell, flopping into the warmth. He laid there enjoying the sun's rays, before they were blocked out by a shadow.

"Enough horsing around, both of you."

Opening his eyes, he looked up at the general and groaned.

"Come on Nabooru, I haven't been out here that long."

Reaching down, Nabooru grabbed the man's ear, dragging him to his feet, despite the height and weight disparity, eliciting a hiss from him as he was forced to bend to accommodate her.

"You've been out here for over three hours. You know your sense of time is shit when you're under those weird trances. Now come on, the Oracles have summoned you. Again."

Rubbing his ear and muttering, he relented.

"Alright then, let's go and see what Mother Dearest has to say."

A stiff elbow from Nabooru caught him in the side and he grit his teeth, sucking air in between them as he rubbed at the spot. She seemed to have a unique talent for hurting him, despite the years of training he'd undergone.

"You will have respect for the Wise Ones!"

"Fine, Fine…just keep those sharp, knobby elbows to yourself. Skinny little…."

At that mutinous whisper, he took off, a fuming general at his heels, followed by a spunky recruit, laughing.

XXXXXX

He sat in the dark atrium of the hall, a pot of incense burning in front of him, filling the room with sickly, purple smoke.

His Mothers claimed it was soothing, and opened your mind, allowed one more intuitive access to the aether, letting them commune with the primordial forces on a deeper level. He argued that no man made concoction compared to being among the elements, in places untouched by civilization. At least the spiritually lacking civilizations of today. The ancients were clearly more mystically inclined than their younger counterparts. He often wondered what got lost in translation as the ages progressed, to lead to such a disconnect between the creators and their children.

The air shifted, subtly and his back straightened, his casual air vanishing. He felt the magically laden presence enter the room. Could feel the forces at work, held tightly under his mothers' grasp as they approached, appearing from the darkness like frail specters.

The two women were practically identical. Each had the same wrinkled, green skin, large hook noses and black robes. Their hair was a stark white but it didn't sit flat. The woman on the right had hair that flared up, as little tongues of flame ran through the strands, whilst the woman on the left had hair that extended straight back, frigid and brittle, with little clouds of frost gathered through it.

The jewels on their foreheads would've seemed gaudy and out of place in other situations, but even the most inept peasant child would've felt something wrong in their presence. The gems, despite their resemblance to a ruby and a sapphire, were anything but natural stones. Magic, concentrated and focused for so long that it took solid form.

The dark skinned man fought the urge to bow, as he had been doing for weeks now. It was a difficult habit to break, especially after all of the trouble they went through instilling him with the courtesy as a young boy. He could hear them even now.

'_One must always respect their elders, little King. At least until you are a man. Then you can do whatever you damn well please!'_

If only it was as easy as they had made it sound.

The two witches settled in front of him, the sickly purple smoke still wafting out of the pot. He sat in silence, waiting respectfully for one of them to say something. Seconds turned into minutes, the silence unbroken, until a withering voice finally spoke.

"Nabooru tells me you've pulled two more regiments from the front line."

A hiss of ice followed the sentence. Kotake then. Which meant…

"Foolish boy. You wear that jewel and call yourself King. But you're a boy in action!"

The crackle of ashes gave the sentence further bite. Not that it needed it.

"Mothers, I –"

"SILENCE!"

The purple smoke swirled angrily, buffeted by the sudden heat of the room.

"Pretty words and backpedaling won't save our people. Weak child!"

She spat, the saliva striking the ground beside her in a hiss of smoke.

He said nothing, more than familiar with how these conversations worked. If he spoke too quickly, she would just snap back twice as hard, the fire burning the foolish child who didn't respect its heat. Finally Kotake spoke again.

"My sister's words are harsh. But they ring true. Tell me, my King, why do you persist? Is it not clear that Harkinian has no desire for peace with us? He's spurned four different messengers, while two didn't return at all. What more proof do you need of his intent to continue this war?"

"What would you have me do, Mothers? This is not a just war we fight."

His voice was strong and deep, a complete contrast to the playful tone he'd adopted with Aisha earlier.

"We overstep our bounds. The Gerudo are of the desert. This is who we are. Who we have always been. We have no claim to the fields. Or the lakes. Or the mountains. Just as the Hylians, the Zoras and the Gorons have no right to our dunes."

"Does the wolf have right to the rabbit it kills to feed its pups? Does the hawk own the mouse it hunts so that it can fly another day?" hissed Koume.

"No. They don't. But the gods have made it such that the wolf eats the rabbit, and the hawk eats the mouse. These creatures are inherently superior. Granted stronger teeth and faster legs than their prey."

Kotake rested her hand on his face, the skin icy and cold.

"And that is what you are, my King. You are the wolf. You take what doesn't belong to you. And you make it your's. To protect those that follow you, and depend on you for their survival. It is what you were born to do."

He grasped the ice mage's hand, holding its frigid fingers in his own.

"War is no answer to this. We are a strong, proud people, but we cannot stand alone and win this battle. Even the Gods are against us, for we want what isn't ours. We can't win a war on three fronts. Not like this."

"We could, if you would stop staying your hand, my King."

His calm almost broke at the ice witch's words. Anger, hot and fiery coursed through him, and he clenched his fists, feeling an all familiar heat build in his right hand, reacting to his rage. Or inciting it, perhaps. Koume cackled.

"You hold yourself back even now. The Boy King, too afraid of his precious patron to stand by those who raised him. Too lizard-tailed to eve-"

"Enough!"

The man's blue eyes gleamed as he sprung to his feet, fists clenched, the rage swelling up inside of him as his right fist glowed with golden light.

"I am your King. And you will respect me as such!"

Koume fell back, silent, although she still wore a grimace of anger on her face. Kotake spoke, appeasing.

"Listen, Foal of the Night, I…"

"I AM NOT A CHILD!"

The golden light flared in full force, washing over the two witches.

"It is you that started hostilities with the Hylians! We may have lived hard lives, but they were fair. We earned what we had!"

"While Harkinian and his pasty followers grew fat and lazy! Every year, the days grow hotter and the nights grow colder! Our people suffer for it! Yet the other races of Hyrule sit, prideful and ignorant of our struggle!" The words were like dragon's breath, snapping with heat.

"Our struggle is our OWN. The Gerudo have always forged their own path. We alone are strong enough to prosper under the unforgiving heat, this is how we were meant to survive. Our struggle makes us strong!"

"And your pride will kill us."

Her sister and the Gerudo king stilled at her words. Whereas Koume was fierce and swift, Kotake's speech was slow and steady. And all the more impactful as a result.

"You are entrenched in the ways of old. Things change, Foal of the Night. The desert grows harsher every year. We cannot live as we used to. To do that would be folly. To live, unchanging and unwilling to change, is to not live at all."

Kotake gestured, the haze of the room coalescing into a scene, from far in the past. It showed thousands of Gerudo on a field, charging at an enemy force and conquering them. It showed Gerudo youths in an oasis pool, splashing and playing. A scene from years past, as the last oasis dried up long ago. Or was this what could be in the future?

As the smoke started to form again, the King shook his head firmly, feeling the heady rush of the incense leave him as he came to his senses. He glared down at Kotake, the witch who dare enchant her king.

"Foal of the Night, we love our people. And we love you. You are our King. Bound to lead us to even greater heights."

The smoke shifted slightly, showing a desert, the stronghold of the Gerudo in disrepair, broken and empty.

"It's difficult to lead a people that no longer exist."

With those words, the smoke vanished, the pot's lid floating from where it lay to rest atop it once again. Kotake stood, the tinkling of ice in her wake. She turned to her sister.

"Come Koume. Leave our King to his thoughts. He has much to consider."

Koume merely snorted and rose as well, each step crackling like dry firewood as she exited the atrium. Kotake followed and, soon, none were left but the Gerudo King, staring at the space they had just occupied, his mind whirling.

He had not asked to be put in this situation. King of a fading race. Entrenched in a war they couldn't possibly win. Enemies at all fronts, and the elements to battle at home. He clenched his hand, the power within resonating with his emotions, aching to be unleashed.

If he took to the battlefield, that could all change. In a single day, he could tear apart entire armies, lay waste to locations at will. He could ground the infamous Hylian Cavalry, or crush the Zora guerrillas in the waterways they so coveted. The Gorons would find their massive strength useless against his powerful onslaughts. It would be easy. Terribly so.

And it was not his place. Divine power had no place in the conflict of mortals, least of all in the farcical usurpation attempt that this war had become. He was forced to watch his people fight harder to survive than they've had to in a thousand years and he felt helpless, unable to do anything without making something worse.

"My King!"

He turned, seeing Nabooru prostrated before him. The observed custom caused him to pause, half a dozen reasons for her formality, each grimmer than the last, running through his mind.

"Speak, Nabooru. What news do you bring?"

She raised her head, and the emotion in her eyes made the King's stomach drop.

"It's…It's Dragmire sir. He's taken the battlefield again, this time at the Bridge."

The King's stomach turned to ice at her statement. The last time Dragmire personally intervened in a battle, he completely crushed the Gerudo's offense in the field, despite the numbers being against him. He then rode onto the Gerudo encampment, slaying the remaining soldiers in their bed, leaving their bodies strung up their own banner poles as a testament to his victory, and a warning.

Dragmire was like him. One gifted by the very Goddesses themselves. One who should sit apart from mortal conflict, for it was not his place to cut down mortal men while touched by that which is not. Heedless of his sacrilege, Dragmire continued on, intent in advancing Hyrule's glory.

The King stood, a familiar rage coursing through him as he stormed forward, bypassing Nabooru who stumbled to her feet to follow him. He stepped out of the atrium, slamming the doors aside as if they were made of straw, instead of stone. He shouted for his horse, and four servants ran, scurrying to fulfill his request.

_He had acceded to Din's will many times before. He knew the war they fought was not a righteous one, and knew that the power he held was not to be used in such a selfish pursuit. _

He turned to Nabooru, barking out orders, commanding her to assemble their best, ready to ride out within the hour.

_Ganondorf Dragmire had no such qualms. He used his power relentlessly, sweeping aside Gerudo forces wherever he fell, heedless of his sacrilege. _

The King sat upon his horse, rallying his troops, and spurring them onwards. He need not bother, as the mere sight of their King, strong and battle ready upon his horse was more than enough, and they cheered for him. He swung his sword forward, charging out, flanked by his people as they stormed off to Dusk's Bridge, prepared to meet the Hylians in combat.

_Today would mark the first day that Link, the Gerudo King, Bearer of the Triforce of Power, rode out into battle. It would be the first day upon which he clashed with Ganondorf Dragmire, Hyrule's Lance, Wielder of the Triforce of Courage, in a bid to stop his unnecessary slaughter of his people._

_It would be the first day of many more to come._


End file.
